


93 Million Miles

by rubygirl29



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Clint is lonely, Explicit Sexual Content, First Time, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, sort of a song fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-26
Updated: 2013-02-26
Packaged: 2017-12-03 17:08:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/700655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rubygirl29/pseuds/rubygirl29
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Coulson is cool, Clint has issues and worries. Sitwell doesn't want to hear about it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	93 Million Miles

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Note: This started as an epilogue to [ A Cup of Kindness, A Measure of Love](http://archiveofourown.org/works/648108?view_adult=true), but it grew. The title is from a Jason Mraz song. 
> 
> Disclaimer: Marvel owns the characters. I own only my words.

_Every road is a slippery slope_  
There is always a hand that you can hold on to.  
Looking deeper through the telescope  
You can see that your home’s inside of you. 

_"Someday, I'll make you macaroni and cheese so good that you'll be spoiled for everything else."_

_"Seriously?"_

_"My grandmother's recipe is legend."_

_"It's a date." Clint's eyes widen as he realizes what he's said, a brief panic in them._

_Phil decides now is not the time to back off. He's cared for Clint, defended him, protected him. He wraps his fingers around Clint's forearm and leans in. "Absolutely," he whispers, and kisses him._

^*^*^*^*^*^*^  
 **S.H.I.E.L.D. Headquarters**

The date doesn't happen. Phil goes on a mission that is beyond Clint's security clearance while Clint is still in a cast. Natasha is wreaking havoc in Moscow by waging a one woman war with the _Mafyia_ . Clint is left with nothing better to do than PT and hanging out in the ceilings over Jasper Sitwell's office to see if he can glean any information about Coulson's whereabouts. Jasper proves to be as ruthlessly uninformative as Phil. 

After three weeks of PT, he's back on the range with nothing more than some lingering stiffness in his fingers. There are times when he kind of loves S.H.I.E.L.D. medical and the biomechanical engineers they work with. His new shooting glove is thin and light, but with some sort of metallic plates laid like fish scales that flex with his every move and support his hand. He fires off a flight of arrows and his hands feel fine. No reason for him to be on the shelf. He takes a picture with his phone of the targets he's shot through.

He goes to Maria Hill's office and knocks. When she answers, he comes in and stands in front of her desk. 

"Yes?" He shows her the new glove. "Nice," she says. "R&D has done some cool stuff since we hooked up with Stark Industries. How does it feel?"

"Great." He draws a breath. "So ... no reason for me not to be in the field. I have the all clear from the therapists. He shows her the photographs. "I could bring the real thing, but they're a little awkward."

"So, you want to go out on a job?"

"Umm ... yeah."

She looks at her computer. "We've got a drug lord in Cartagena who is causing problems."

"Come on, Hill. Anybody can do that."

"Sorry." She shrugs, "Nothing else on the horizon."

"Send me to where Coulson is."

"He has back-up."

"He doesn't have me," Clint says. "I'm the best there is."

Maria sighs. "I have to take this up with Director Fury. I'll get back to you."

She turns back to her paperwork. Clint refrains from cursing. "When?"

"When what?"

"Coulson!"

Maria throws down her pen. "You won't leave until I call Fury, right?"

"Yes, ma'am."

Hill is reaching for her phone when it rings and she jerks back, startled for a second before she picks it up. "Hill." She listens. "Yes, sir. He's here. Yes, sir. We'll be right there." She hangs up. "It seems like you got your wish. That was Director Fury. He wants us both in his office. "

"Great. Is this like being called into see the principal?"

She smiles slightly. "Not quite as scary."

"You must have gone to one hell of a school," he mutters and follows her out the door.

^*^*^*^*^*^*^  
 _Budapest_

  


It's a beautiful city with buildings like tiered wedding cakes and narrow cobbled streets. It's a safe city for the most part, and as a student, Phil had enjoyed the cafes and coffeehouses, the risque knowledge that he was in a Communist country and who knew what could happen? At twenty, he had felt invulnerable. He felt like a young James Bond. 

Now, not so much. He is definitely feeling more like _Skyfall_ Bond; able to fight, but not able to shake off the bruises and strained muscles as easily as twenty-five years ago. He has spent the last six hours tailing Zoltan Toth, a drug trafficker and terrorist making the rounds of every dive bar in Budapest. It's below freezing, the winds are whistling around the buildings, and he's chasing this asshole as he downs shots of _Zwak Unqum_ , the potent herbal brandy that is considered the national liquor of Hungary. By the time he hits the fifth bar, Toth is reeling happily away from the bar with a prostitute on each arm, and heading down an alley of questionable hotels. 

Phil, meanwhile, is shaking with cold despite his winter coat. He swears the tip of his ears are frostbitten. He steps up his paces until he is on their heels, then fakes a trip and manages to clip a tiny GPS chip on Toth's coat. He's hoping that between the liquor and the sex Toth will stay put for a few hours while Phil warms up and calls in back-up. Wistfully, he wishes he could have Clint on this op. He heads back to his cheap hotel room, where the register coughs up a few grudging degrees of heat. 

Phil makes himself a cup of soup in the microwave and waits for S.H.I.E.L.D. to call him back. He keeps an eye on the tracker, but it's been still for a while. Either the GPS has failed, or Zoltan is enjoying the pleasures of the flesh. Phil is on the verge of drifting off when his phone chimes softly. He reads the text from Maria Hill and texts back. He's smiling as he gives the GPS monitor one last glance. Still no movement. He routes the GPS signal to S.H.I.E.L.D. They can babysit and alert him if necessary. He's cold and tired. He wraps the thin blanket around him and forces his mind to be still. 

^*^*^*^*^*^*^  
Nothing good has ever happened to Clint in Budapest. There was a run-in with Natasha before she was recruited that left him with a broken hand. Then, there was the time he was kidnapped by a cretin of a drug lord who had a penchant for torture. Good times. Clint bears the scars from that particular encounter. Pneumonia doesn't rank high on his list, either, but it had nearly killed him after an op last year. He really does hate Budapest despite its whipped cream confection architecture, the cafes, the pastry shops ... okay, he'll give them points for _Dobos Torte_ ... but all in all, he'd rather be in Philadelphia. 

He arrives at Budapest in the late afternoon. He can't go in as S.H.I.E.L.D. He can't even look like himself. He has grown as much stubble as he can over two days. His hair is messed and with the application of temporary color, it's now a dark, mousy brown. He's wearing blue jeans, hiking boots, and a Iowa Hawkeye sweatshirt under a well-worn pea coat. His bow is packed in a duffel with a shielded false bottom. The main compartment holds a beaten up snowboard. He looks like an aging slacker. His first destination is a hostel where he registers under the name William Brandt. He pays in advance. Once in the room he exits via the fire escape. He leaves the snowboard behind along with a bag of cheap toiletries. It looks like he's out for the evening being a tourist.

His next stop is a cafe where he orders a bowl of goulash. It was a long flight from New York and they don't serve meals on the red-eye. He checks his phone; a cheap burner provided by S.H.I.E.L.D., and sends a text to Sitwell. He waits, has a cup of coffee, and receives a text in return. He digs out the SIM card, puts it in his pocket then dumps the phone in the toilet tank. He leaves the cafe. He drops the SIM card down a sewer grate. A block over, he stops in a coffee shop and buys a large latte and a piece of _Dobos Torte_. He studies a cheap map, looking like a typical baffled tourist. Nobody pays any attention to him. He folds the map, sticks it in his pocket and heads towards the address Sitwell had texted to him. 

He settles against the building across the way and sips the latte. Third floor, first window. Still dark. He doesn't like that. If Phil had stayed put like he should, the light would be on. He looks up and down the street. There is a pharmacy on the corner and Clint saunters in like he doesn't have a care in the world and picks up a cheap burn phone. He calls Sitwell and leaves a coded message. Then he tries to call Phil. No answer. There could be a reason for that, but life has taught Clint that expecting the worst is insurance. When the phone vibrates in his hand, he answers with a brusque, "Yeah?"

"Ease up, Barton. He woke up about an hour ago, took a stroll to a cafe, and has settled in for surveillance."

"Where?"

"Two blocks east of your current position. _Cafe Czardas_."

"Cool." Clint's relief pours through him. "Let me know if he makes a move."

"I can contact him," Sitwell says drily. "You don't have to sneak around."

"I like to sneak," Clint smirks. "Just in case Toth has eyes on him, it's better if he doesn't get distracted."

"Distracted by you?"

"I can be very distracting."

"Thanks, Barton. I just threw up a little in my mouth." 

"You're a riot, Jasper." Clint closes the phone and starts walking the two blocks to _Cafe Czardas_.

^*^*^*^*^*^*^

Phil is keeping an eye on Toth as he sits at _Cafe Czardas_ with one of the two prostitutes from last night. He doesn't think there is an attachment of any kind, not with the way the woman winces whenever he touches her. It's not something Toth would notice, but Phil can see it in her eyes, in the way they skate away to the corners of the room. She is younger than she looked last night, there is a bruise on her cheek, and her eye make-up is smudged under her eyes, like she's been crying. 

Phil is sitting in the shadows; he is wearing a dark sweater and a black leather jacket, dark jeans. He is completely unremarkable. He's reading a copy of _La Recherche du Temps Perdu_. He looks like an academic, not a warrior. 

A voice brushes his ear. "I've always gone for the _louche_ type," it whispers, a rasp of whiskers against his skin.

"I'm impressed you know what that means," Phil responds. 

"Well, Natasha taught me a lot about Paris. How do you feel about madeleines?"

Clint slides into the chair next to Phil's. He looks rough, tired. "Long flight?" 

"It wasn't Stark's private jet," Clint says. He follows the line of Phil's study. "That him?"

"Yes."

Clint looks at the couple from beneath his lashes. He doesn't like what he sees. "Are we taking him out?" 

"I wasn't planning on it, but I'm starting to change my mind. We have to find the lab first."

"That's why I'm here," Clint says. His finger plays lightly across the back of Phil's hand. "How long are we going to sit here waiting for him to make a move?"

"A move other than terrorizing that woman with him?"

"Just because she's a whore doesn't mean she isn't human," Clint says darkly. Phil looks at him, at the grim lines at the corner of his mouth. Clint has been on the streets, he's probably sold more than his sniper skills, and that makes Phil deeply sad and protective of him. 

Clint shifts. "Brace yourself, I've got an idea."

Before Phil can even raise a brow, Clint stands up, shoves the table away angrily and _yells_ at him. "Fuck you! If you can't get me what I need, I'll find somebody who will! I've got people, important people, with ready money and I don't fucking _need_ you or your fucking product!" He sneers and tips the table over, sending the remains of coffee and pastry flying, and stalks out of the cafe. Phil brushes off his clothes, surreptitiously watching as the mark shoves the prostitute aside roughly and leaves, following Clint. As bait, he's irresistible. 

The girl stands up on wobbly legs, looking like she's about to follow the man out the door. Phil stops, her. "Don't," he says. "Stay here, drink your coffee and get something to eat. He won't be back." He presses some money into her hands. "Stay here," he repeats forcefully, and she sits down, afraid of him, but more afraid of the man who left her. 

Phil is out the door. He sticks to the shadows and hears voices from a dark alley. Clint, talking to the Toth. His voice is persuasive, with a hint of a plaintive whine. "I had a deal with that prick -- my clients -- they aren't going to be happy with being cut out of the market, y'know?" He starts sounding shaky, scared. "Man, they are gonna want they're money back and ... I was paid to get a deal and now ... I ... lost it."

Zoltan smirks. "Did you leave it on a bus?"

Clint gives him an ugly grin. "Chemin de Fer in Monaco."

"You are amusing. We might be able to do business. How much do you need?"

"How much can you give me?" 

"Numbers are unnecessary. "I'll be in touch ..."

Clint grabs at Toth's sleeve. "Tonight. I need it tonight. I'm booked on a flight ... If I don't have a deal tonight, you won't have my client's business and I won't be able to talk him into dealing with you. He'll find somebody more willing. 

If Phil didn't know it was Clint, he'd believe every word. 

Toth gives an exasperated sigh. "Very well. Meet me at this address in two hours. Bring cash. And if you are lying to me, I'll cut off your balls and make you eat them for your last meal."

It can't be that easy, Phil thinks. Then he hears the unmistakeable _ping_ of a silenced bullet. Clint doesn't use a silencer, and he wouldn't jeopardize an op. This goes through Phil's mind in a millisecond. His gun is out, his aim is perfectly steady as he steps into the alley and shoots the mark in the kneecap. He goes down writhing in pain. Phil gets out a syringe and injects him with a dose of sedative strong enough to stop an elephant in its tracks. He gets out his phone. "Sitwell! Back-up, now! And a medical team."

Clint is lying on the ground, curled around his middle gasping for breath. Phil kneels beside him, turns him, and dodges a flailing arm. "Barton! Be still. Let me look." He pulls up Clint's sweatshirt and falls back in relief. "Good boy. You wore a vest."

"Fuck!" Clint curses. "God, I hate being shot. Damn bullet broke a rib. Hurts like a sonofabitch."

"Better than being dead," Phil's hands stroke through his damp hair. "You wore a vest ... " he repeats. "God, I love you!" He can't help it. He kisses Clint and feels his hands fumbling at his arms. "Easy, easy," Phil soothes. "Just be still."

Clint subsides into stillness, his head cradled on Phil's lap. "So, guess that op is blown."

"We got one of them. Fury will get him to talk."

"We could give him to Tasha," Clint suggests with a wan twist of a smile. 

Phil chuckles. "That might be against the Geneva Convention."

"Suits me," Clint sighs. "Got any of that stuff you gave the guy who shot me?" Phil shakes his head and continues stroking through Clint's hair until Barton's body relaxes and his breathing evens out. 

The cobbles are hard, and Phil is sitting in a puddle of what he sincerely hopes is water. "Ten minutes out," Sitwell says in his ear. "Are you secure?"

"Safe as houses," Phil replies and smiles when he hears Sitwell's amused snort. 

^*^*^*^*^*^*^

Clint spends a night in medical just to be sure that there isn't any internal bleeding and to keep him on some sort of pain medication for as long as possible. Clint, no fan of narcotics, won't take anything once freed from medical, preferring to put up with the pain. Natasha says he is just being a big damn hero, but she kisses his forehead anyway. 

Clint lies low in his quarters for the next two nights until he can stand upright without passing out. He texts Phil every hour just to annoy him, and doesn't see the fond exasperation as Phil texts back to tell him to stop pestering him like a kid in the back seat of a car. It makes Clint happy, anyway. He wants to tell Phil he misses him, but that sounds even more like a whiny kid, so he tells Phil he's not fit company for anybody until his pain ramps down. 

Natasha brings him tea, his purple afghan, and some dreadful romance novels for him to mock. He texts her with his favorite passages. _Huge granite monolith? Seriously, who'd want to be fucked with that? It sounds like the Washington Monument._

By day three, he's about to climb the walls. He'd go to the range, but he can't shoot. He can't even think about drawing a bow. He could go to the cafeteria, but the thought of solid food still makes him faintly nauseous. 

Natasha is on a recon mission to Paris, and if Clint knows Tasha, she'll stay once the mission is over, shop for a few days and come back with ridiculous shoes and a smug look on her face. 

That leaves Phil. Phil, who is restful and who will feed him chicken soup or Pho, who watches awful reality TV that puts Clint to sleep. Phil, with issues and kisses and who lets Clint cuddle against him when he is aching with cold. 

Clint doesn't see he has any choice in the matter. He pulls on jeans and a zippered hoodie over his t-shirt. It's late and the clerks, secretaries, admin assistants and trainers have done their nine-to-five shifts and gone home. It's as quiet in the halls as it ever is at S.H.I.E.L.D. He walks through the building to Coulson's office. A narrow strip of light shows under the door and Clint knocks before he opens the door a crack and peers in.

Phil is sitting at his desk reading a report -- a hard copy, which means it goes only to Fury. He is resting his forehead on his hand as he reads and makes a few final notations on the papers. His half-glasses are perched on the end of his nose. His hair is slightly rumpled and his shirt sleeves are pushed up, revealing his strong forearms. He doesn't look like a pencil-pushing bureaucrat to Clint. 

Phil glances up from the report, sees Clint, and his eyes soften as he smiles. "It's late," he says.

"You're still here."

"I'm working. Are you all right?"

"Yeah. I just ... I wanted some company. I've slept all I can sleep. I can't work out or go to the range, Natasha is away buying shoes." He loves the small crinkle at the corner of Phil's eyes at that. "I missed you," he whispers, like it's a flaw in his character. "Sorry, if I was being a dick about keeping you away."

"You weren't -- except for the hourly texts," Phil's smile touches his lips. "Hill was not happy when I kept checking my phone and laughing."

"She's just annoyed that Fury wouldn't let her go to Paris with Tasha." He sidles into the room like he's waiting for Phil to tell him to go away. When he doesn't, Clint lowers himself cautiously to the sofa. His ribs hurt. 

Phil watches him. "Give me fifteen minutes to finish this and get it to Director Fury."

Clint lays his head back against the cushions. The ceiling tiles are boring. He slouches down cautiously and closes his eyes. The next thing he knows, Phil is speaking his name from a safe distance. Clint wakes up. "Sorry."

"You still need sleep." Phil's frown is concerned, not annoyed. 

"My mattress is hard."

Phil's eyes warm again. "I can help with that, but you look thin," he says. "Haven't you been eating?"

Clint shrugs, "Not so much."

Phil sighs with exasperated affection. "You'd better come home with me, then." 

"Really?"

"Go get your meds and pack what you need. I'll meet you at the garage." His hand clasps Clint's arm gently. "I missed you, too."

"That's sweet of you, sir." Clint can't help smiling back. 

^*^*^*^*^*^*^  
Coulson's apartment is as appealing as Clint recalled. It looks like a _home_ , with books and warm lights and gleaming wood furniture. The sofa beckons to him and he sinks into it gratefully. "I can just sleep out here," he sighs. "I don't want to move."

"You're going to eat something first. Stay awake." He turns on the TV to a hockey game, knowing Clint loves the Rangers. A few minutes later, Clint is drawn away from the game by the buttery aroma of grilled cheese. His stomach actually _growls_ for the first time since he got back from Budapest. 

Phil cuts the sandwich in half and puts a mug of cream of tomato soup in front of him, then joins him across the table. It's achingly familiar. Clint has a sudden pang in his chest, wishing this could be forever, something he's never allowed himself to acknowledge. 

Phil is still wearing his work clothes, minus the jacket and tie which are folded neatly on the back of a chair. His sleeves are rolled up and he has a towel tied around his waist to protect his trousers. The look works for him. It certainly works for Clint. He manages half a sandwich and most of the soup. "Thank you. That was great."

Phil shakes his head, "I still owe you my grandmother's macaroni and cheese." 

"Maybe when I can do it justice," Clint looks regretfully at his sandwich. 

"Better than the cafeteria?" Phil smiles gently. 

"Obviously." Clint tries unsuccessfully to stifle a yawn. 

"Go back to the hockey game. I'll clean up. It won't take long." He trails his hand across Clint's shoulder; a gesture both comforting and intimate in a way that Clint has never known. He captures Phil's hand and leans his cheek against his wrist. He hears Phil draw in a breath, and then he bends, his lips whispering across Clint's cheekbone and down to his mouth. His lips are dry and cool, chaste and gentle, as if Clint were something fragile and precious. Which is wonderful and endearing, and kind of hilarious if he thinks about it. He's never been fragile and precious. His only value has been in his skill, and when that failed, or faltered, he'd been cast aside. 

The thing is, he's _not_ fragile. He doesn't want Phil to see him that way. He tugs on the short strands of hair at the nape of Phil's neck. "I won't break," he says against Phil's lips. "Stop kissing me like I'm a piece of your grandmother's china." He grips the collar of Phil's shirt. "Kiss me like you mean it," he growls, and Lord help him, Phil does.

The kiss is lips, teeth, the glorious slide of tongue that sends Clint's pulse into overdrive and makes him moan into Phil's mouth; a wanton, filthy sound that has Phil wrapping his arms around Clint's shoulders. Clint pulls Phil into his lap. The soft fabric of Phil's shirt is crumpled in his fists; he can feel Phil's erection rising hard and hot against his. 

"We can't do this," Phil says, his voice rough in his throat, but the words lose their effect because he's breathing into Clint's mouth and his hands are still in Clint's hair. 

"We absolute can," Clint says. "Stopping now might just kill us both."

"Ribs," Coulson says, dragging his mouth reluctantly from Clint's. 

"My ribs are fine," Clint replies. They're not, but he knows the difference between discomfort and pain, and he knows that being buried in Phil's body will feel so fantastic that no drug will ever make him fly so high. "Let's go to bed."

Phil nips his neck and pulls away carefully, standing up as if that will give him some sort of advantage. It doesn't. It puts the placket of his trousers right where Clint wants it. "This is not a good idea." He tries to use his Agent Coulson voice, but it's not working for Clint right now. 

"It's a fabulous idea," Clint tells him, like he's talking about some off-the-wall plan on an op. He looks up at Phil and presses a kiss to the front of his trousers. He swears Coulson jumps like he's been shocked. "Oh, yeah, baby. It's definitely a fabulous idea." He lets the heat of his breath warm Coulson's cock, and feels Phil tremble. "It will be good for both of us. Please ..." He takes Phil's hand and presses it to his groin. Phil's eyes widen and darken. Clint knows he's won this battle when Phil laces their fingers together and pulls Clint upright. 

They kiss properly, their bodies pressed together full length. So perfect. Phil's hand is on his side, gentle over his ribs. "You're sure about this?"

"Stop over-thinking, Phil." He pulls him towards the bedroom. 

^*^*^*^*^*^*^  
The only light in the bedroom comes from the lights outside; the faint glow of his neighbors' windows, the snow-softened neon of the restaurant sign across the street. It's enough light to show how beautiful Clint is. His eyes are a mysterious blue with gold flecks in their depths, his lips are sweetly chiseled. Phil carefully strips off Clint's t-shirt, sliding it over his right arm and head first, before lifting it carefully to avoid jarring his ribs. He's tightly taped, which Phil regrets because the bandages cover up too much skin. But his nipples are dark and peaked; his chest is broad, his arms ... God, his arms are a miracle of perfect strength and form. Phil kisses the vein standing out on his bicep. His skin is salty, fragrant with Phil's own herb-scented soap. 

"You are amazing," Phil whispers. "How can you be here?"

"Here?"

"In my bed, in my life."

"You're the one who told me to come in." 

"I did." 

"This is not the time to change your mind," Clint uses his weight to press Phil down into the pillows, into the ridiculously comfortable mattress. 

"I'm not." He gasps as Clint's erection brushes against his. Even through layers of cloth, the sensation curls in his spine, stomach and groin. "You'll kill me yet," he says.

Clint's eyes glitter blue and hot. "Nah, not if you get naked right now."

"I'm not above reciprocation." He slowly starts unbuttoning his shirt. He keeps his eyes on Clint as the shirt slides away. Clint holds it to his face briefly as if inhaling Phil's scent, before dropping it to the floor. He deftly unzips Phil's trousers and tugs them off, then his socks and briefs. 

"That's what I'm talking about," Clint says as he raises himself over Phil. His cock is warm and hard and velvety against Phil's. Phil can't suppress the sound that comes from deep in his throat any more than he can help working his sex against Clint's. 

Clint sucks in a breath, "Jesus, Phil ... I want ... "

"Tell me. I want you to say it."

"I want to fuck you."

"I want that, too." Phil's fingers brush through Clint's hair. His eyes and mouth are tender, "I want that if it doesn't hurt you --"

"Worth it," Clint mutters and starts nibbling down Phil's throat, and across his collarbone. "So worth it, and it won't hurt. Please ..." he breathes. "Just ... please."

"Lube and condoms are in the nightstand."

Clint's expression is almost comical. "Umm ... are you like the the best Boy Scout ever?"

Phil laughs softly. "It never hurts to be prepared, Barton."

"Wow, I don't know if I should be flattered or alarmed."

Phil looks at him. "For you. It is always for you."

"Oh. In that case ... " He kisses Phil deeply as he fumbles in the drawer for the lube and condoms. Phil watches as Clint warms the lube in his hands, then rolls on the condom, which is the sexiest damn thing he's ever seen ... Clint's hands on his own cock; the way he bites his lip, the way he bends and takes Phil's shaft in his mouth; perfect lips sliding over flushed skin. He draws a finger down Phil's ass, raises his knees and flutters his finger over Phil's hole. He kisses the flesh, teases it with his tongue and Phil sees stars at the edges of his vision for a moment. 

Clint slides a finger inside Phil, then two, watching him, waiting for the muscles to loosen. He probes deeper and Phil nearly arches off the bed. " _Barton_ ," a low, keening gasp as Clint hits his prostate again. 

"It's okay, I've got you," he says softly. Phil feels the head of his cock at his hole, and his muscles release as Clint fills him with heat and hardness. 

"Move!" Phil says, half-whimper, half command. 

"You're so hot when you give me orders," Clint rocks deeper; wrapping his hand around Phil's dick as he thrusts. 

"I'll remind you of that on our next mission," Phil says in a strangled voice. but it's his last coherent thought before the movement of Clint's body, the pumping of his hand and the sheer force of his need, send Phil flying. 

When he comes back to his senses, Clint is reaching his own climax. Phil tightens his muscles around Clint. God, he's beautiful like this; his eyes half-closed, his skin glistening with sweat, the muscles of his perfect arms taut and corded. Then his head drops back and every fiber of his body seems to vibrate with the force of his orgasm. Phil feels the heat of his release through the thin latex of the condom. If he could, he'd come again with that sensation inside of him. Maybe fifteen years ago, he would have come again, but he has never been this close to perfect ecstasy as he is at this moment.

Clint shudders one last time and kisses Phil. "I'd stay like this forever if I could," he says softly.

"I know."

Clint rolls off him, and it's Phil who strips the condom off his soft cock and pitches it into the wastebasket. The scent of sex is sharp in the air, his semen is sticky on his skin, but he doesn't want to wash it off. He nuzzles into Clint's warm, smooth chest. Clint's arms come around him, his leg is thrown over Phil's, drawing him close. Phil fumbles for his comforter and pulls it over them both, cocooning them in warmth before he falls asleep. 

^*^*^*^*^*^*^  
Clint wakes up at 3am when the lights outside have dimmed and the moonlight finds its way somehow between the tall buildings of New York. It lays a path on the floor from the window to the bed and spills across the wrinkled sheets. Phil looks like he's carved in silver, and Clint doesn't know if he should stay or go back to his quarters at S.H.I.E.L.D. This isn't like any other relationship -- Can he even call it that? -- That he's ever had. Even when he had slept with Natasha, it was her call as to whether or not he stayed. Either way worked for him, but this is different. 

He feels like he's caught in Coulson's orbit, moving ever-closer, 93 million miles from the earth to the sun and he isn't sure if he's heading home or taking another step closer to burning away to nothingness. 

"Clint?" Coulson moves sleepily, raising up on an elbow and blinking in the moonlight. "Are you all right?"

"I -- Yeah ... I just ... Do you want me to leave?"

Phil looks at him with a slight frown between his brows. "Do you want to leave?"

Clint looks at him, looks away. "It's not ... not what I do ... You know, stay."

"That's not what I asked. Do you _want_ to leave?"

Clint blinks as if the moonlight hurts his eyes. If he says yes, will Coulson look relieved? If he says no, will it be a disappointment? He takes a breath. "No." He can't help it if his voice quavers. 

Phil smiles and opens the covers. "Good. Then come back to bed."

Forget the moon. It's like the sun has come out. He slides back into bed. Phil gathers him in, cold feet and all. Clint burrows under the covers, lets Phil settle him again. This is good, Clint tells himself, imprinting every moment in his heart for the times when he'll be alone and cold. He doesn't believe in forever, but he might believe in tomorrow.

**The End**

_240 thousand miles from the Moon, we’ve come a long way to belong here, To share this view of the night, a glorious night, over the horizon is another bright sky_.


End file.
